Spawn
by ijustwanttobeabritishman
Summary: They're in a dark cave when it happens. Sherlock's suspicious, and John's hiding something. But it's not until the gun comes out that everything clicks into place.
1. Cave

**Hey, sorry this is so short. It's also un-betaed, so any mistakes are mine. Second chapter will be up tomorrow. **

**Spawn**

"John, where are you taking me?" The low, melodius notes of Sherlock's voice rebound off the cave walls, ringing in John's head. He's regretting this, now.

"Not much farther; just in through this passage," he says back, his own voice equally as bouyant as Sherlock's. He's scared now, not because of what he's going to do, but of the trust he will have broken.

Sherlock stops dead. "John..." The shorter man halts in his steps, sighing. He knows the game is up.

"Sherlock, you must understand, this is for the best-"

"Killing me? John, listen to yourself! Killing others randomly is _not _for the best!"

"It's not 'killing others randomly', Sherlock, it's killing _you._"

"As if that's any less-" but then the gunshot rings out, reverberating off the walls and into John's ears. He looks away from the body, forcing himself not to stare into the blue sapphire eyes filled with broken trust. Sherlock is dead, and all will be better tomorrow.

Because tomorrow is Christmas.


	2. Christmas

**Sorry if this doesn't make much sense- tomorrow's chapter will hopefully explain everything. **

Christmas arrives overnight. John blinks, opening his eyes. He can hear the wind howling outside and the rain pelting his windows (White Christmas, HA.) He flexes his arms above is head and yawns, glancing around the room. Running a hand through his hair, he recalls the events of the night previous. It had been hard to fool Sherlock into thinking something was actually down there (well, now there was), and even harder to look in his eyes and pull the trigger. Oh well, he thinks. It had to be a sigh, John pushes himself out of bed, tossing away the covers. Yawning again, he rummages around in his dresser for something to wear and picks a pair of loose red sweatpants, a navy blue shirt, and a nice, dark green bathrobe. Feeling a bit better, he stratches, reaching down to his toes, then shakes his arms out and (after slipping his feet into a pair of red slippers) heads downstairs.

Sherlock is waiting in the kitchen; an unopened newspaper and two mugs sit in front of him. He's reading the front page of the paper when he hers John's footsteps and looks up. John smiles. "Morning, Sherlock."

"That was extremely rude, you know," he replies bluntly. "There was no need to kill me so dramatically. You could have just asked."

"You would've said no." John cuts off Sherlock's huff of frustration by plopping down in the chair opposite the man. "Honestly, Sherlock. If there was any other way to do it I would have done it. But it was necessary, and-"

"I would have behaved properly if you'd asked!" Sherlock pouts. "There was no need to take brash measures-"

"You wouldn't have behaved properly in a room with Anderson _and _Donovan even if I threatened to smash your skull and you know it," John says steadily. "This way, there's no risk." John takes a long sip of tea, then blinks. "And now I have a Christmas present for you! We can go back down to the cave and get it back, tonight." Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Fine."


	3. Flashback

**Hey. Sorry for all the confusion. Hopefully this will explain it a bit. It's a flashback, so the story is kind of on pause. I really should have posted this as the first chapter, but I don't want to do all of that work. T.T**

_"Probably my answer has crossed yours," comes the cool voice. Moriarty smirks, but says nothing. Sherlock raises the gun, pointing it at Jim's head. That's right, you bloody bugger- The arm moves downwards, aiming not for the criminal mastermind before them, but for the bomb and oh god we're both going to die-_

_Sherlock's finger tightens its grip on the trigger and John moves without thinking- propelling himself off the wall and into Sherlock and they both topple into the pool and oh god, everything's on fire oh god we're going to die- And then there is cool water, chlorine is stinging his eyes, but it's better than fire and smoke and death and- **Sherlock**! John looks down. The man is sinking to the bottom of the pool, spreading a cloud of red into the blue water. John dives down, ignoring the taste of blood-filled pool water as he grips Sherlock under the arms and kicks, kicks for the surface and he's running out of air and his vision is becoming black and he can't think, nothing but water and chlorine and blood and air air oh god he needs **airairair**-_

_They break the surface. John gulps in lungfuls of smoke-filled air- it burns his throat but it's blessed oxygen and he almost laughs- in the middle of this burning building he almost laughs and **Sherlock**!_

_The black haired man is still in his arms. John heaves them both out of the water, onto a patch of pool tiles not covered in broken wood and flames. He's breathing. John's eyes rake over his body, trying to take in any injuries, but-_

_"...John..." comes the raspy voice._

_John's eyes fill with tears. He ignores the voice and returns to assessing the wounds, trying to find the source of the blood flow- ha! There, right there, if he can apply pressure, any sort of pressure- He rips off his shirt and begins tying it around Sherlock's chest, which is hard because he's lying on the ground-_

_"John..."_

_John ignores him again, and starts wrapping the bullet would that somehow got itself lodged in Sherlock's stomach-_

_"John, stop." Sherlock's voice is quiet, deliberate, and resigned, and the fact that he knows he's going to die brings John to tears. He breaks, collapsing on top of Sherlock, heaving unrestrained, from-the-gut sobs. Sherlock (somehow) brings an arm on top of him, enclosing John in that he assumes to be a hug._

_"Sherlock, oh, god, Sherlock- you can't die- you can't-" the words are stammered, and John's trying to tell Sherlock everything he can in the few seconds that he has left-_

_"John... stop. Tell me... tell me tomorrow." John stops, trying to work out what Sherlock means. "And don't let them do anything to my body. Take it home. Tonight." He's biting out orders and shit, John's shirt is already soaking in blood- "Don't do anything to it. Take it home. Tonight."_

_"Sherlock, I-"_

_"Consider this my 'last words', if that is what it takes for you to-" a cry escapes his mouth, and now blood pools out of his mouth. "Goodbye, John-"_

_And he's dead._

_:~:~:~:~:~:_

_John doesn't let them take the body. Mycroft raises an eyebrow, after offering to take it himself, but after John tells him what Sherlock's last words were, Mycroft gives a short nod._

_"Call me in the morning if you need to, John," he says, and then he is gone._

_John returns home (thank goodness Ms. Hudson is out) and places Sherlock on the couch._

_He walks upstairs and cries until he falls asleep._

_:~:~:~:~:~:_

_John wakes from a dreamless sleep and stares up at the ceiling. Dread washes over him. What is he supposed to do now? All Sherlock told him to do was to bring his body back and keep it overnight. Now what?_

_He sighs, gets out of bed, dresses, and walks downstairs._

_Sherlock's in the kitchen, waiting for him._

_"Good morning, John," he says, looking up from his newspaper._

_John faints._


End file.
